Balthazar (19 page)

“You have a hostage,” Balthazar said, his voice as low as a growl. “As you well know.”

“But I'll never hurt little Charity. Not in any way she doesn't enjoy being hurt. She remains my favorite toy. So that doesn't work, you see?” Redgrave's hand dropped, and Balthazar sensed the increasing danger. “We can't trust you again, I fear. I know you won't hunt us, for baby sister's sake, but beyond that—no one could say what you might be capable of. Least of all yourself.” That bloodless smile leered too close to Balthazar's face. “If you ever awoke to your full potential, you might be a creature to reckon with. But you're too busy grieving for what you lost. Too busy pitying the weak and wishing to be human.”

In the distance, another great crashing sound echoed through the streets, as well as a fresh wave of screaming. Faraway firelight glowed orange behind the outlines of buildings. This heat, this riot, this horrible moment—they seemed as if they could never end.

Balthazar tried to catch Charity's eyes, hoping she might take this moment to turn against Redgrave—they weren't strong enough to beat him, not even together, but they might be able to get away if they worked in tandem. Instead she was playing with a strip of lace that had come loose from the sleeve of her dress, as thoughtless and unconcerned as a child.

Could he leave her here? Abandon her once again to Redgrave? Balthazar knew he had to, but it was no easier the second time.

Lorenzo strode forward, past Balthazar. “I say it's time we find out what's behind this door, don't you think, Redgrave?”

“No!” Balthazar shouted, but too late; Lorenzo had ripped the warehouse door from its hinges. The other vampires swarmed after him, and Balthazar ran inside, too—to see that the building was empty, the back door still ajar.

Richard took his chance
, Balthazar thought with a rush of relief. He'd spoken of hiding them in the nearby post office basement—too obvious, Balthazar had said. While he'd been arguing with Redgrave, Richard had silently herded the group into their new place. The uproar outside had muffled the sounds.

Redgrave breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring. “Many. Afraid—ah, deliciously afraid. Gone … but not far. Shall we follow?”

Balthazar was the first to reply, by slamming his fist into Redgrave's face.

It was only the second time he'd dared to attack his sire, and even with more than two hundred years' strength and experience, Balthazar knew he was still no match for Redgrave. But he could hold his own now. He could cause the bastard pain.

They fell to the plank floor, a loose nail head cutting into Balthazar's back even as he grabbed Redgrave by the ear and jaw and slammed him down alongside him. Redgrave shoved him so hard that Balthazar went skidding across the floor; splinters jabbed into the skin of his side, arm, and face as he slid. He hit the wall so hard that a couple of his ribs broke—they'd heal quickly, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

As Balthazar groaned, he heard Constantia call out gleefully, “This way! Come on!”

Redgrave grinned down at him, clearly understanding that murdering the people Balthazar had been helping to protect would be more hurtful to him than any further physical punishment. He was gone in an instant, the vampires leaping through the back door faster than Balthazar could get to his feet.

But he pushed himself upright and ran after them, ignoring the blood trickling down his face and the stabbing pain in his side. They reached the door only a few seconds before he did, but long enough for them to pull it from its hinges—a great tearing sound of metal, a shriek that rang out over the bedlam surrounding them—and leap inside. Balthazar shouted out, a wordless cry of anger and helplessness, and hurtled inside after them…

… to face the cold.

“What the—” Balthazar's voice choked off as he realized the basement stairs on which they stood were far colder than could be explained by being inside or underground. It was more than the absence of the sweltering July heat; it was as cold as January, as though they had stepped inside an icebox.

And though no torches burned, and no lanterns were held aloft, the room glowed with an eerie blue incandescence.

Richard, like those he had brought with him, stared up in mingled worry, anger, and confusion. His eyes clearly asked the question,
What's happening?
Balthazar could not answer.

Then he glimpsed something he had always longed to see on Redgrave's face—pure fear. But it gave Balthazar no comfort, because he heard Constantia whisper, “
Wraiths
.”

Wraiths
. Ghosts. The spirits of the slaughtered dead, lingering on earth because of their unfinished business—or so Redgrave had always said. He had spoken of wraiths with the deepest terror and loathing, swearing they were the sworn enemies of vampires, the only creatures on earth who found it easy to harm them, and steering them far clear of any building rumored to be haunted. Although wraiths occasionally terrorized human beings, they chose to manifest seldom—if at all—to mortals. However, the mere presence of a vampire could drive the wraiths to spectral phenomena as spectacular as they were dangerous. Constantia had once whispered to Balthazar, as their heads lay on one pillow, that the whole reason Redgrave had asked them to endure the voyage to the New World was because he thought a land so desolate would harbor fewer wraiths.

But the New World wasn't so new any longer, and as blue light burned brighter and nausea gripped Balthazar's gut, he knew that all Redgrave's fears had been justified.

The wraiths were the only creatures unholier than he was himself.

The pain lashed through him—through all of them—like being stabbed with a sword of ice. Balthazar crumpled along with the rest; they collapsed atop one another in a heap. Charity fell beside him, and for one moment their eyes met.

Still, two centuries later, she was more afraid of him than of Redgrave or the wraiths.

Wraith light swept down again, agonizing and swift. Redgrave somehow summoned the strength to lunge back up the steps and out the door the way he had come; his tribe followed, Charity among them. Although Balthazar tried to clutch at the hem of her skirt, pain had weakened his grip, and the fabric simply brushed his fingertips for a moment before she was gone.

Now the wraiths had only one vampire to torment—Balthazar himself—and the attacks grew more blinding, more terrible. His body twisted in response to the assault, fangs jutting from his jaw as if this were an attacker he could fend off. He could hear the screams of the people inside, horrified by what they were witnessing even if they didn't understand it. As Balthazar pushed himself toward the door, he looked up once to see Richard … and in his old friend's face was more revulsion than compassion.

Richard had never seen this—his monstrous true form. It could never be unseen. Although he could not have guessed the full truth, Richard must now realize that Balthazar was not human. One small refuge, one fragile friendship, was broken. With it went Balthazar's ties to the human world.

He pushed himself out onto the street, falling into a mud puddle. As Balthazar spat dank water from his mouth, he looked up to see that Redgrave, Charity, and the rest were gone; no doubt they'd fled this place as fast as they could.

As the fire-reddened sky overhead churned and faraway screams split the night, Balthazar thought,
They've left me here in hell
.

THE NEXT DAY, REDGRAVE DIDN'T COME. HE didn't approach Skye at school, didn't stalk her house, anything.

Or the next day.

Or the day after that.

During study hall on that third day, Skye texted Balthazar,
Did you actually scare Redgrave off? Or talk him out of it?

I doubt it. I just can't believe it's going to be that easy
.

Balthazar had told her about his altercation with Redgrave, and that he'd basically given him the equivalent of an antidrug speech. There was something else he hadn't told her about what Redgrave had said or done—she could sense Balthazar holding back about it. Regardless of what that might be, Skye didn't think one serious talking-to was going to be enough to save her.

She typed,
So what's he waiting for?

I don't know. He can be patient, when he wants something. He knows how to bide his time
.

That sent a shiver down her spine, and she sank back in her library chair. This place seemed so ordinary, so cozy—like if anything as terrifying as Redgrave walked in here, he'd turn to dust or burst into flame, the way vampires in movies did when they walked into a sunbeam.

And yet he could appear at any minute.

“Who do you keep texting?” Madison said quietly, though not quietly enough; people at nearby tables—and Balthazar—would've been able to hear her.

“Shhhh! It's just—a friend of mine from my old school.” Skye couldn't resist a small smile; after all, she was telling the absolute truth.

Somebody at a nearby table muttered, “In other words, a friend she thinks actually counts.”

Madison flushed so deeply with anger that her freckles seemed to disappear. Skye snapped back at the other girl, “The only person in this room who doesn't count is you.”

“Ahem.” Balthazar rose from his desk and strolled toward them. How was it he could look that hot while wearing glasses and a blazer? But the glasses did something to his face—made his cheekbones look even more cut, maybe—and there was apparently no piece of clothing that couldn't be rendered hot by being draped over those shoulders. “Study hall is for studying, young ladies. Not for arguing. Let's keep it down, okay?”

Skye had to look away from him to keep from laughing. As he went back to his place, she quickly texted,
Young ladies?

I'm trying to talk like a teacher! Too much?

You're hilarious. But I think they're buying it
.

She stole a glance at him at the same moment he was stealing a glance at her. Though she would've thought that would make it harder to keep from laughing, it had a very different effect. As their eyes met, she remembered their two hungry kisses—the way it had felt to be held in his arms—and she knew, beyond a doubt, he was remembering that, too.

Quickly she looked away, turning back to her books, though calculus had never seemed less interesting. Madison whispered, “Is it just me or is he getting even better looking?”

“It's not just you.” With determination, Skye kept her eyes on her calculus.

“Now I need to change panties.”

“Madison!” Skye started giggling despite herself.

Her phone chimed again.
Let's keep it down, young lady
.

Which only made her laugh harder. But she kept it quiet.

As the days went on, and Redgrave didn't come, Skye and Balthazar began to fall into a pattern. He watched her get on the bus in the mornings, from a distance; they never saw each other then, never spoke, but she knew he was there to guard her if needed.

They saw each other for the first time each day in her homeroom, where he took her name and tried to act official … and, when she wore one of her skirts, tried very hard not to look at her legs. Skye supposed she could have worn jeans a little more often, if she wanted to make things easier on him; they were definitely warmer, which counted for something in upstate New York during January. But she didn't. All those years of riding had given her great legs—they were her best feature, she thought—and she liked the warmth that rushed through her every time she caught Balthazar stealing a peek.

History class was less fun, because Balthazar took history seriously. “So are we still going to use the textbook?” Madison asked one day as Balthazar handed out these enormous packets of photocopied material.

“No, we're not.” Balthazar sounded extremely satisfied about that. “You won't need it until Mr. Lovejoy returns, and frankly, you'd be better off without it even then. For a genuine perspective on the colonial period, you need to go back to original sources.”

Flipping through the packet, Skye saw that their materials were now old legal deeds and diaries and other documents from the colonial era. Not excerpts, not interpretations, not commentaries: just the original stuff. The rest of the class started to groan, and she was mostly grateful she had access to the ideal tutor.

“I know this doesn't look good,” Balthazar said, though he remained cheerful. “But I'm here to help you as much as you need. If there's anything about this era—anything at all—ask me, and I'll explain.” Britnee's hand shot up. “Already! Okay. What is it, Britnee?”

“Mr. More? I was wondering? Whenever you read old stuff like this, people's spelling is weird, and they use an
f
when they mean an
s
? And I don't get why that is? Did they actually say it differently back then?”

Balthazar could only stare at her, nonplussed, for a long second. Then he managed to say, “They didn't pronounce it differently. The spelling was just—a convention of the time. Which I admit doesn't make much sense, but there are things we do today that are just as strange.” He took a deep breath. “Moving on!”